AllFreeNovel
Share Us
My face heats immediately, so I open up my laptop and go back to what I was doing before, only I keep sneaking peeks at him because he is absolutely gorgeous. Finally, I give up working on my story and close my laptop. I pull a small sketchpad from my messenger bag and start making quick studies of this guy, thinking I might be able to base a character off of him. Maybe a rogue prince in one of my fantasy romances. I like this idea, and start drawing him with long hair, flowing robes, a crown, then giving him weapons like a sword or a bow. He morphs into something fae, and I go with it, looking up from time to time to check my sketches against my subject. When I catch him mid-yawn, I smile and add a quick outline of the way he turns his head to the side and closes his eyes, the back of his hand raised to his mouth, fingers curving away from his face. He’s got that irresistible—at least for me—combination of regal bearing with a touch of condescension coupled with a quirk of his mouth and lively eyes that suggests amusement, and with which I always associate the fae. They seem consistently both amused and annoyed at having to deal with us humans.
“Okay, people, if I could have your attention.”
The officer who opened the doors for us is at the front of the room. It takes her a couple of tries before all the voices are stilled, and she can begin going over everything she needs to say about jury duty and what’s going to happen today. Most of the people aren’t paying attention, but I am. It’s kind of fascinating, actually. But then she plays a video that seems like one of those educational movies they used to show us in school when there was a substitute teacher. This one’s a bunch of people telling us how much they loved serving as jurors and how important it made them feel. Over in his corner, TDH guy rolls his eyes and goes back to looking at his phone.
As soon as the film’s over, a phone rings and the officer answers it, then tells us she’s gotten a request from one of the courts for jurors. One of the clerks hands her a stack of papers, and she starts calling out names and directing people to a courtroom on the third floor. There’s a lot of shuffling as people gather up their things and leave the room. By the time she’s done reading off names, the room’s about half empty, and people have reshuffled themselves, claiming better seats or moving from standing to one of the chairs. Then everyone settles into waiting mode. I put my earbuds in and go back to my laptop.
It doesn’t take long for me to feel restless. The chairs are uncomfortable, the ledge at the wrong height for me to work on my laptop for any length of time without feeling it in my neck and arms, and there’s a constant buzz of activity and sound that’s too loud to ignore, but not really constant enough to become background noise. The room’s also just a touch too warm, so I want to doze off.
Coffee would probably be a good idea, and once more, I look over to Mr. TDH with a pang of guilt for depriving him of his travel mug. He’s frowning at his phone and shaking his head, lips pinched tight, and eyes narrowed at the screen. Somehow, that pissed-off look just makes him look even hotter, and I open my sketchbook again to catch this new expression. Because he seems so engrossed in whatever’s irritating him, I don’t keep my gaze confined to quick glances. Nor do I keep my sketch focused on his face. The lines of his body are beautiful: his legs are model slim with elegant proportions from ankle to knee and knee to hip, and his upper body widens into a delicious V. I’d lay odds he was a swimmer with that expansive chest and long arms and legs. Plus, the slimness of his build and the drape of his clothes suggests some serious muscle tone.
I’m openly ogling him now, so it’s not surprising when he catches me. One side of his mouth quirks up, and he winks at me. He fucking winks. Yeah, my face flames again, but I don’t look away because why bother? He’s already caught me, and the devilish glint to his eye is killer. I hold his gaze for a couple of heartbeats, and then he turns his focus back to his phone. Damn. I’ve got to use these sketches in one of my stories.
The morning passes pretty much this way. I get a bit of work done on my story, do some sketches of Mr. TDH and try to let him catch me again—which never happens—and think longingly about my cubicle where design work is probably piling up in my inbox for the first time since I started at the company. At noon, we’re dismissed for an hour to get lunch, but warned not to be late getting back because another group of us will be heading up to a courtroom.
I hang back and follow Mr. TDH thinking I’ll ask to join him at his table in the cafeteria, but he doesn’t go there. Instead, as soon as he’s out of the assembly room, he dials his phone and heads to the stairs already talking to someone on the other end.
A couple of people from the jury pool invite me to join their table, so I don’t end up eating alone, but I also get an earful of complaints about not being dismissed for the day since another group of jurors are always on stand-by for the afternoon.
“But they’ve already got us here,” this guy in a flannel shirt says with a shrug, “so, they’re probably going to keep us all day.”
“No one starts a trial on a Friday,” a woman says. “This is total BS. Just some prosecutor’s way of trying to force a plea deal and using us as leverage.”
It seems they’ve all been summoned before, and I’m the only first-timer here. So, I keep my mouth shut, eat my lunch, and let everyone else talk. Eventually, they run out of complaints about jury duty and ask me about myself.
“Not much to tell,” I say. “This is my first summons.”
“This is my second,” the person next to me says. This is a woman who looks to be about my age. She’s got spikey dark hair that’s been bleached and dyed bright pink on the ends. Her head’s shaved on one side, piercings outline her ear, and tattoos crawl up her neck.
I love her look and ask if she’d mind if I sketch her. Of course, as soon as I bring out my pad, everyone starts asking questions about what I do, and I have to explain to the older folks at the table about webcomics and that, yes, you can make a living doing this, especially if your work becomes the basis for a TV show or movie. A couple of them shake their heads. Yeah, I know. I’m used to it. My parents do the same thing, and then pat themselves on the back for insisting I go into design work. I love them. I really do, and I appreciate their support, but, honestly, the conversation gets old pretty quick.
“These are really good,” says one of the guys, who’s looking over my shoulder as I do some quick sketches. It’s clear he’s shocked at how good I am, which is nothing new.
“Thanks,” I say and try to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. I’m never sure why people think expressions of surprise at the quality of my work is a compliment.
When I show the sketches to the woman with pink hair, she nods and asks to hold the sketchpad. As soon as I give it to her, she starts to flip through the other pages. I’ve never understood people who do things like this, or the ones who think it’s okay to go through all your photos on your phone when you just wanted them to see this pic of a cute dog.
“Ooooh,” she says as she gets to the page with all my studies of Mr. TDH, and my cheeks heat. I know my face is bright red, and when she comments on what a hottie this guy is because she noticed him too, I just want to crawl under the table and die. “You’re not so bad yourself,” she says, and gives me a thorough once-over before closing up my sketchpad and handing it back.
Mortified, I mumble out a thanks and stow the pad back in my messenger bag. I never know what I’m supposed to do in these situations. Do I tell her I’m gay or just say thanks and let that be that. I mean, it’s not like she’s asked me out. In any event, it’s about time to head back to the jury room, so our group breaks up. A couple of people head upstairs for a smoke, a couple others head for the bathroom, and I head back to the refrigerated cases for a bottle of water.
The afternoon session starts with the new arrivals finding their seats in the assembly room, the officer going over the same instructions as we got this morning, and then playing the same movie. Lucky me. As soon as the movie’s over, the officer starts calling out names. We’re heading to the third floor, the same courtroom as before. This causes a bit of a ripple in the room, and I catch bits of conversation that this means it’s a tough case.
“Shit,” someone says as their name is called. “I do not have time for something that’s going to take longer than a few days.”
The person seated next to them shrugs. “Eh. Just tell ’em you think the cops always have a reason when they arrest someone. The defense will bounce you. Works every time.”
I don’t hear the response because my name’s called, and I’m distracted by gathering up my things and following the line of people out of the room and then up the stairs to the third floor. I’ve never been in the courthouse before, so it’s kind of fascinating to me. All big doors and marble floors. Hard surfaces that create echoes of even the faintest whispers and make a group of sixty or so people sound like a herd of bison. I catch glimpses of people in small rooms—lawyers with their clients, families, police officers—and everyone seems too calm. It’s not at all like what they show on TV.
Another court officer stands outside the door of the courtroom, and we have to wait until everyone arrives before he opens the door and lets us in, motioning to the seats in the gallery. I’m surprised to see there’s already people sitting in the jury box, but I guess those are the people from this morning’s group. Three seats are empty, and, as soon as my group’s gotten settled, the judge addresses us, thanks us for coming, tells us a little about the case—it’s car theft with DUI and a hit and run—and approximately how long the case is expected to last—about a week. She asks if anyone has any hardship exemptions, but no one does. The judge introduces her clerk, who asks us to rise and swears us in, and then the clerk calls out three names.
“Ashley Simmons, Jesus Ramirez, and Tyler Grosford. Please come forward and take the empty seats in the jury box.”
Well, shit, I think as I stand. The advice I overheard as I left the assembly room flits through my head as I get up and walk toward the jury box, but I know I’m not going to take it. And then I catch sight of Mr. TDH sitting in the back row of the gallery. Would it be so bad to serve on the same jury as him for the next week? At the very least, I’d get some great ideas for my new fantasy. And I don’t just mean my webcomic.
Cameron
Tyler Grosford.
